


The Book of Love

by Akikofuma



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Broken Heart, Geralt realizes things too late, M/M, MAJOR HURT, No Fluff, Seriously guys, Suicide, Unrequited Love (somewhat), dead dove, no comfort, no happy ending, this is not for the faint of heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akikofuma/pseuds/Akikofuma
Summary: “Jaskier?” Geralt called out, but again, there was silence.It was the type of silence that finally had the Witcher bursting into the room.No sound of movement.No rustling of clothing, or sheets.No beating of a human heart.------------TRIGGER WARNING: This fic contains SUICIDE. Please, do not read it if that is not your cup of tea, or might bring up past trauma.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 82





	The Book of Love

After the mountain, nothing was the same again.

He and Yen had crashed and burned. Even after reuniting with the sorceress, when she’d agreed to stay at Kaer Morhen with Ciri to help teach the little cub; their connection had been lost. Over the months, they had become friends, of a sort. Both understanding they weren’t meant for each other, no matter how much they had wanted it.

For a bit over a year, the only thing that brought Geralt joy was seeing his family, safe and happy within the crumbling walls of their home.

He’d meant to set out and find his bard much sooner; but life had a way of making decisions for him, however much he despised it. Two winters had passed before Geralt made it back onto the Path; setting out to find Jaskier, and set things right between them.

His travels were too silent. Without Jaskier or Ciri by his side, Geralt noticed that he’d come to hate the silence, the solitude of his former life. They had crashed into his path like meteors, shining bright, altering him forever. It had taken him too long to realize that Jaskier hadn’t been the burden Geralt had often made him out to be; had deserved his snide comments and unkind treatment less than any other human being on the continent, Ciri not included.

Jaskier had been kind and loyal. Unexpectedly caring. Boisterous and noisy, yes, but he’d devoted himself to improving Geralt’s life as much as he possibly could. Had been good to the Witcher like no other had before.

What had it earned him, in the end? Geralt had hurled the most hurtful words he could think of in the moment. He’d spit bile and venom, and chased Jaskier away. The only human friend Geralt ever had, and he’d destroyed him.

Allowed the poet to walk away, ignored the scent of sorrow and tears. Hadn’t followed when he should have. Convinced himself that the insane accusations he’d hurled at the brunette were nothing but the truth.

With time, he’d come to see how wrong he’d been.

So he walked the Continent in search of his lost friend. Passed through villages, towns and cities. Hearing the bards song, but never finding the man himself. Not until a faithful night in Novigrad.

The Spearhead was filled with men and women, all of noble standing, Geralt guessed, by their carefully tailored clothes, the fine materials. Many wore golden rings or necklaces, decorated with gems. Geralt didn’t know how long Jaskier had been here, but if this was the crowed he pulled, at least he hadn’t suffered hunger, or cold.

When the Witcher turned to take in the man himself, he barely recognized him.

Jaskier had always preferred colorful outfits, bright colors that drew attention to him; like a peacock, vying for a mate. His hair had been carefully arranged until it looked perfect, no matter if he was about to perform for the masses, or walk a dusty road beside Roach. Blue eyes had sparkled with life, with optimism, with _joy_.

The Jaskier he watched perform now had none of those things reflecting in his eyes. He wore clothes made with muted colors, dark blue and gray. His hair had grown out over the years, hanging messily around his face and neck. When blue eyes caught Geralts, they were empty. No joy, or life. Nothing. The barest flicker of recognition, before they turned to take in the rest of the crowd.

When Jaskier had smiled in the past, it had felt like sunshine, warming Geralts skin just by the sight of it. No one had smiled the way the bard had, certainly not at a Witcher. But Jaskier had always been different. Hadn’t shied away from Geralt when he should have been terrified. Even a punch to the gut hadn’t chased the poet away.

The smile that now graced the brunette’s lips held no warmth but melancholy, open misery. Made Geralt feel cold, like winter had never left his bones.

Jaskier showed none of his usual charisma, his (sometimes unjustified) confidence in himself. He looked small, lost; head bowed, fingers shaking. Sitting on a chair on stage, instead of dancing about, in and out of the crowd, like he’d done in the past.

A broken songbird.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The bard spoke, lifting his head just enough to allow another peek at that pitiful smile. “Our time together has come to an end, I’m afraid. But before we part, I have one last song to share with you. A love song I’ve worked on for the past two years. Would you like to hear it?”

There were cheers, a bout of applause.

“Alright then.” Jaskier softly replied, the tips of his fingers caressing the neck of his lute with thoughtful care. “Here we go.”

“ _The book of love is long and boring,_

_no one can lift the damn thing;_

_it’s full of charts, and facts, and figures;_

_and instructions on dancing._

_And I,_

_I love if when you read to me;_

_And you,_

_You could read me everything.”_

The room was filled with awed whispers, the crowd completely taken by the bards newest song. Geralt’s chest seized with uncertainty, with fear. Instinct telling him that something was horribly, horribly wrong. He just didn’t know what.

“ _The book of love has music in it;_

_In fact, that’s where music comes from;_

_Some of it’s just transcendental,_

_Some of it’s just really dumb._

_And I,_

_I love it when you sing to me._

_And you,_

_You can sing me anything_ .”

Geralt could hear the telling sounds of tears being spilled, the scent of tears growing stronger with each word, with each  heartrending note coming from the poets lute. The dread Geralt felt quickly growing stronger, more pronounced. He glanced around the room, looking for any sign of danger, to him, Jaskier, or any other patron of the Spearhead. He came up empty.

“ _The book of love is long and boring,_

_And written very long ago;_

_It’s full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes,_

_And thing’ we’re all too young to know._

_But I,_

_I love it when you give me things;_

_And you,_

_You ought to give me wedding rings._

_And I,_

_I love it when you give me things;_

_And you,_

_You ought to give me wedding rings._

_You ought to give me wedding rings.”_

The song came to its end, and after a few moments of silence, the tavern broke out into applause. Highborn ladies swooned, dabbing the tears off their faces, sobbing. Geralt caught a few men with tears in their eyes as well.

“Ah, thank you, thank you, ladies and gentlemen.” Jaskier said, just about loud enough to be heard by them. “You are all too kind.”

Blue eyes turned to Geralt, taking the Witcher in from head to toe. Back was that smile that made his gut clench, his stomach churn. Another wave of _wrong_ hit him square in the chest. Jaskier was looking at him in a way Geralt didn’t understand, hadn’t seen once in the twenty years the bard had followed him.

“It was my pleasure to have met you.” Jaskier continued, his gaze not wavering. “I’m hopeful I have enriched your night, and perhaps your understanding of love. If not, I hope I at least did not make you suffer too greatly.”

Geralt swallowed, lips thinning as they were pressed together. What was happening?

“Alas, each night must come to an end.” Jaskier turned his eyes back to the crowd. “I bid you well, good Sirs and fair ladies. May life be kind to you.”

With that, Jaskier stood to bow, before wandering off the stage. Immediately followed by a hoard of women, vying for his attention; but also blocking the Witchers way. Geralt did his best to get through them without causing too much of a stir; a fight would do him no good now; but he couldn’t reach Jaskier before he disappeared through a door. Geralt caught him whispering to a man leaned against the wall beside it before it fell shut behind him.

“ _Stall him.”_

Geralt wanted to scream. Break the mans legs that now stood before him, denying him entrance.

“Bard’s tired.” He grunted, seemingly unimpressed by the Witchers growl. “If you want to see him again, come back tomorrow.”

“I need to see him now.” Geralt insisted, lips curling into a snarl to show off his sharpened canines. _Don’t make me hurt you,_ Geralt thought. _I will if I have to, but please. Don’t make me._

“What’s so important?” The stranger demanded, still seemingly unbothered being confronted by a pissed off Witcher.

“I’m an old friend.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Jaskier had called him friends for years, after all. Geralt just hadn’t returned the words, stupid as he’d been. “The Witcher he wrote songs about.”

The man gave him a scrutinizing look, eyebrow raised skeptically. Considering. Geralt’s patience came to an end then.

“Let me through, _now_ , or I will blast this door down, and you with it.” He growled, pupils narrowing down to slits. He had to get to Jaskier because something was _wrong;_ Geralt could feel it in his chest, in his skin, in the tips of his toes and fingers.

He had to get to the poet, his bard.

His songbird.

Finally, the man stepped aside, motioning towards the door.

“I hear a single sound that’s off, Witcher, and I don’t care how many men it takes to throw you in jail.”

Geralt, not able to care less about the threat, tore through the door; sprinted up the stairs. A hallway lined with doors greeted him, but it wasn’t hard to figure out which belonged to Jaskier. Geralt only had to follow his nose.

“Jaskier?” He called, knocking on the door. He got no reply. Geralt knocked harder, called louder. Nothing. Did Jaskier hate him so much he didn’t even want to see the Witcher again? Geralt wouldn’t have blamed him; had half the mind to turn around and leave Jaskier live out his life without him.

Had there not been something niggling at the back of his mind, urging him not to give up. To check on the bard, whether he was turned away or not.

A single push against the door found it unlocked, creaking as it opened just a sliver.

“Jaskier?” Geralt called out, but again, there was silence.

It was the type of silence that finally had the Witcher bursting into the room.

No sound of movement.

No rustling of clothing, or sheets.

No beating of a human heart.

_Let him just have run_ , Geralt found himself begging.  _Let him have climbed out the window like he has so many times before._

He stepped into the room, and there his songbird lie. Still as stone. Not a twitch in his hand. Not a breathe in his chest.

“No.” Geralt pleaded, staggering over to the bed, falling to his knees. _Please, no. Not this._

“Jaskier.” He croaked, grabbing the bards shoulder, shaking it roughly. “Little lark, please.”

Unseeing blue eyes stared up at him. Forever gone from the world.

“Come back to me.” Geralt whimpered, golden eyes filling with tears he wasn’t supposed to be able to spill. “Come back to me, damn it!”

Geralt leaned over the still warm body, spread pale lips, attempting to breathe life back into it. Pushed down on his larks chest, again, again, willing the heart beneath the muscle and bones to beat again. Cracking ribs as he went, ignoring the sickening sounds of cracking bone beneath his hands.

The stranger from before was suddenly beside him, staring wide eyed at the body.

“Get a healer!” Geralt snapped, shaking the man from his stupor. “Now, damn it! Run!”

He was left alone again.

Another breathe against lifeless lips. More ribs, breaking under his hands.

No reaction.

Geralt continued on, until the healer arrived, pushing him aside. Geralt fell to the ground, eyes wide and searching for a sign, anything, _anything_ that might have indicated that he hadn’t lost Jaskier. Hadn’t lost his only friend. The man that made his slow, cold heart flutter in ways he’d never understood. Not until now.

_Don’t leave me_ , he wanted to scream. _Please don’t leave me._

The Healer sighed, then shook his head. Turned to the Witcher with a saddened expression.

“Dead. Poison, probably.”

Geralt roared out his anguish. Didn’t care who heard him, who saw. He screamed until his voice failed him, until there was no more air to shove out of his lungs, to articulate his grief.

His songbird was gone.

“Witcher.” The healer was still beside him, hand trembling ever so slightly as he held out a crumpled up piece of paper. “I think this is for you. He was holding it.”

Geralt looked up at the man, taking minutes to process what he was being told. Slowly, almost as if in a dream, he reached out to accept it. Flattened the paper against his wide palm, instantly recognizing the bards hand writing.

“ _Forever yours, beloved Witcher, my Geralt. Fly free now._ ”


End file.
